Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Praise wasn’t something Riam was used to, and it usually embarrassed him more than anything. Oddly, when it was just Gairen with him, it felt good. He stood up a little straighter and his side hurt a little less.

  “I’m sure you’re hungry. There should be something ready by now. We’ll eat, and once the sun is up, we’ll go into town to get you new clothes and a bath. You’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, and I won’t send you downriver looking like a beggar or a raker’s churp.”

  Riam groaned. He wouldn’t mind the new clothes since his own were ruined—though he had no idea what a raker or a churp was—but he didn’t look forward to bathing. He hated being cold and wet. He’d tried swimming with Lemual a couple times, and it wasn’t much fun when he could barely keep himself from drowning.

  Gairen led him to a long building with a wide stone chimney rising from the roof. In the early morning calm, smoke hung weightless around it. Not the smoke of the fire that damaged the outpost, but the good kind—the smoke from roasting meat. This close, the smell was overpowering, making his stomach growl even more. Despite the pain in his side, his steps lightened, and he sped up. He didn’t care what they were serving. He’d eat a screet if they put it on his plate.

  They’d stayed at several inns while traveling, with common rooms large and small, but the inside of the long building dwarfed them all. More than a dozen tables in neat rows filled the room. The worn benches between them were empty, but the room must have held a hundred people when it was full. Two cooks, the room’s only occupants, worked around the fireplace. A small pig was spitted over glowing coals below a metal hood that funneled the smoke into the chimney. On the table closest to the cooks lay an assortment of vegetables, breads, and cheeses. There was even a comb of honey. Wooden plates were stacked on the corner, and a variety of pots and pans hung in perfect order by size on pegs along the wall. One of the cooks had wispy white hair and long eyebrows, while the other was balding and missing most of his right arm. A metal cap covered the end below the elbow. He used his good hand to turn the spit.

  “Bad luck today, boy,” Gairen said loudly, even though the room was empty. “Brin is still alive. The food may finish the Esharii’s work.” The man with the missing hand stopped turning the pig. The other’s lips split into a wide grin.

  “I heard you ran into some tribesmen,” the one-handed bald man said. He let go of the spit handle and wiped grease from his hand onto his apron. “Pity they weren’t better fighters. I was hoping they’d taken your balls back across the mountains and thrown them into their sacred lake.” There was no trace of humor in his deep voice.

  “Not this time, and not anytime soon. Besides, it’s the regimental glyph they prove their kills with, not the balls.” Gairen waved toward the one-handed man. “This, boy, is Brin. He’s a mean-spirited, hairless old badger, and with that one hand he cooks up the worst food in all of Yaden. The other is Jon. He’s a hair better.” He emphasized the word hair, and Jon chuckled.

  “Well, you got the hairless part right,” Brin said. “How was Nesh? You’re not being assigned here, are you?”

  “Nothing much changes out on the plains—full of tenant farmers and landowners that complain too much and understand too little—and no, simply passing through.”

  Jon took over the spit, winding it slowly. Dripping fat sizzled and flamed. “Don’t see why anyone would live out there. No trees. No shade. Too Fallen hot for me.”

  Gairen nodded toward the spit. “That pig ready? We’ve only eaten hard rations the last few days, and not much of those.”

  “The pig’s ready enough and so are the oats. Grab a plate, and we’ll get you started.”

  Riam picked up a wooden plate and a spoon. He held it out toward Jon.

  “I’ve seen many a child brought in over the years, but few that looked so rough, Gairen. You should get him cleaned up,” Jon said, cutting meat from the haunch. He placed a slice on Riam’s plate and added a ladle full of the oat porridge. Cucumber and tomato followed. Brin gave Riam a chunk of bread and put a generous dollop of honey on the oats.

  “We’re headed into town to remedy that after we eat.” Gairen picked up a plate and waved Riam toward a table.

  Riam quickly discovered that Gairen was joking about the food. The meat was the best he’d ever tasted, seasoned with spices of some kind, and bits of apple and the honey gave the oats a sweet flavor. Even the bread was soft. At home the cooking was always bland since they couldn’t afford anything more than salt to season things with. Fresh bread was even rarer than spices. He’d eaten half the food on his plate before Gairen sat down. Jon came behind him with two cups and a pitcher of water.

  “Your father came through in the spring, on his way back to the island.” Jon filled the cups.

  Gairen didn’t look up from his plate and kept eating.

  “He asked if I’d seen you.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask about him, did I?”

  “Fine.” Jon thunked the pitcher down, shaking the table. “Your business.”

  The two cooks went back to work, and Riam and Gairen ate in silence until Master Iwynd entered with Harol. Gairen pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed. The old Draegoran paused from giving Harol a list of priorities for the day long enough to greet Gairen.

  “Warden,” Iwynd called out.

  “Master Iwynd.”

  The words were formal and stiff compared to last night. Something must have happened after I left. They’d met like long-lost friends, and now they’re barely speaking.

  “It isn’t personal,” Master Iwynd said.

  “Maybe not to you,” Gairen said under his breath, far too quiet for the old Draegoran to hear, then louder, “I understand my duty, sir.”

  Master Iwynd stared at Gairen a moment before he and Harol retrieved plates and moved to another table on the far side of the room.

  Gairen rubbed at the owl on his neck with the tips of his fingers, lost in thought as he stared after them.

  Riam pointed at the owl. “You both have that same tattoo. What does it mean?”

  Gairen stiffened. “Only Arillians mark their skin with ink. Do I look like a dark-skinned Arillian to you?”

  Riam shook his head vigorously and cringed, expecting a blow. He hadn’t meant to upset Gairen. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by the question,” he said quickly.

  “I’m not your grandfather. I don’t hit children. But to keep you from saying something stupid later to someone who does, they’re not tattoos. They’re glyphs, and they’re not placed with needle and ink. The one on the left,” he pointed with his spoon to the strange, dark-blue owl with narrow, evil-looking red eyes, “shows the regiment a Draegoran belongs to. The other,” he pointed to the right side where an arrow with two perpendicular slashes across the shaft rested, “is the mark of his kyden.”

  “Kyden?” Riam asked.

  “It’s a Draegoran word. ‘Master’ and ‘teacher’ are the closest translations, but it’s also the title and rank of the commander of one of the six regiments. When you complete the first rites of your training and retrieve a crystal, a kyden will select you for his regiment. That’s when you earn the first glyph, and it marks you as a member of a regiment. You earn the glyph of your kyden when your training is complete—if you complete it. No Draegoran may leave the island without that second glyph.”

  They ate quietly for a time, until Riam couldn’t take the silence any longer. “How many glyphs are there? I mean, I’ve seen the wreath, the horn, and the uneven lines on your forearms, and the woman on the plains had the crescent moon on her face. Oh, and there was the wolf on several of the Draegorans with her.” There were others, but Riam was unfamiliar with the animals or symbols they depicted.

  “There are hundreds,” Gairen said, “each representing an event.”

  “So how many do you have? I’ll bet it’s a lot if you have tha
t many on your arms.”

  “Too many,” he said under his breath, “but it’s not the number that’s important. Each glyph is embedded into the skin and written under your name in the rolls of your regiment. This way, every Draegoran’s path may be read and honored long after the death glyph is inscribed. Many names in our hall have several hundred glyphs, but for each of those, there are a dozen with less than ten. There are more than a few with only two.” He paused for effect. “The owl and the death glyph—those are the ones who fail to survive the training—of which there have been far too many.”

  Riam froze with the spoon in his mouth. Death glyph? Failed training?

  “It’s what we learn from the path after we bond with our crystal that’s important, not how long or short it is.”

  “But you said before that some aren’t able to retrieve a crystal. What happens to them? Do they get to leave?” Riam asked.

  “Some serve on the island or elsewhere. Others are . . . not so lucky.”

  “So Brin and Jon are Draegorans, even though they don’t have glyphs like you? They failed to get a crystal and now work here.”

  “What?” Gairen looked puzzled, then grinned when he figured it out. “I assumed you understood why you were tested, but I forget how little I knew when I was in your place. You will soon be a recruit for the regiments. Based on your lineage, I don’t see you failing to retrieve a crystal from the vault. If you’re good enough and work hard enough, then one day you’ll be a Draegoran.”

  Riam’s eyes grew big. “But I’m not a Draegoran. I’m from Nesh.”

  Gairen laughed. “No one’s been born a Draegoran since the survivors of Draegora fled across the ocean a thousand years ago. Almost everyone on the continent has at least a trace of the blood, even the Esharii. The only ones who don’t are either pureblooded Arillians or are from the most distant tribes. But even that isn’t what makes you Draegoran. It’s the blood of Parron that marks you for training.”

  Parron? What did the Fallen God of Light have to do with it? “I don’t understand.”

  “After Parron fell to continue his battle with Tomu on this world, he had eight children. You were selected because the blood of one of those children flows through you, and it’s strong enough to allow you to use these—” Gairen twisted one of his blades so that the hilt was visible above the table. White clouds continued to swirl within the crystal in the pommel, tugging at Riam’s mind as if there were something he should recognize—something he should know but couldn’t remember.

  “You can feel it, can’t you? You don’t know what it is, but it pulls at you.”

  Riam stared in fascination at the crystal. He nodded. “What does it mean?”

  “It means your bloodlines are sufficient to link you with a crystal when you’ve learned enough.” He let go of the hilt and the sword disappeared back below the table. “But that’s a long way off, and after quite a few ‘ifs.’”

  “What does it do?” Riam asked.

  Gairen held up his hand. “It’s safe to discuss this here in the outpost, but it’s best to wait until you reach the island to speak of these things. You’ll have plenty of time to learn before entering the vault to link with your crystal. For now, hurry up and finish eating. I’m looking forward to that bath.”

  Riam had a lot more questions. When will training begin? How many others will there be? What did Gairen mean by “link with your crystal” and Parron’s children? That couldn’t be true. How could anyone possess the blood of a fallen god?

  On top of it all, a larger issue rose to the surface. He was going to be trained as a Draegoran. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Everyone across Nesh disliked and distrusted them, but Gairen seemed to be a good man. A sudden thought made his eyes widen with excitement. I’ll get my own sword. Or even better . . . two, like Gairen.

  “I said eat, not sit and daydream.”

  Startled, Riam returned his attention to his food, but his mind continued to churn with questions and thoughts of swords and glyphs. Grandfather, Nola, the Esharii— Everything is suddenly life and death. A few days ago, Draegorans were no more real than monsters in the dark, and now I am on my way to becoming one. He ate the rest of his meal without tasting it, picturing himself returning home dressed in gray and carrying a sword. Ferrick would faint if that happened. He giggled at the image of the big magistrate plopping to the ground and dirtying his crisp, clean clothes.

  * * *

  —

  Riam and Gairen returned to the two-story building from the previous night. Two desks filled the room on the bottom floor, and a young Thaen Regular sat at the smaller one. The man obviously served as a clerk, but it was clearly not his true calling. Papers lay piled around in no discernible order. The clerk searched the piles for something, causing one of the stacks to fall and scatter across floor. “Sorry, sir,” he said and swept the papers under the desk with his foot, as if Gairen would forget his clumsiness once the evidence disappeared from sight. He continued to hunt through the stacks and at last held a single sheet up in triumph.

  “Here’s the account of debt.” He handed it to Gairen and fumbled a key out from where it hung around his neck. Instead of taking it off, he leaned down awkwardly and used it to unlock a drawer while bent over. This was followed by an attempt to break his neck when he tried to stand with the key still in the lock.

  Riam covered his mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Sorry, sir. Harol ordered me to never take it off, and he takes his orders very seriously.” He wiggled the key and it came free. “It gets stuck sometimes.” He took a moment to straighten his shirt before withdrawing a leather pouch from the drawer.

  “Fourteen silver dregs,” he said, counting out the coins. “If you could bring back a chit with the tailor’s stamp . . . er . . . for the records, you know . . . not . . . not for proof or anything. That is, if you don’t mind . . .” The clerk kept his eyes on the desk while he stumbled through the words.

  “Be at ease,” Gairen said. “Even Draegorans have procedures. In fact, we complain all the time that our island floats on paperwork.” He put the dregs inside a pocket at his waist and folded the paper. It followed the money into the same place.

  “Guess that’s true everywhere.” The clerk stood up tall and saluted.

  “I hope that boy manages a spear better than he does a desk,” Gairen said once they were outside.

  Riam didn’t laugh. It wasn’t funny. He knew how intimidating it felt when Gairen directed his full attention at you.

  “We’ll walk to Hath instead of riding. It’s only a couple of steads, and it’s not worth the trouble of saddling the horse. It’ll be good for your side to stretch it out.”

  Riam had nearly forgotten the pain, but with the reminder his side ached once more. This, in turn, reminded him of his hand, and it began to throb as well. He doubted walking would make either of the injuries feel better, but he kept the opinion to himself. Complaining wouldn’t solve anything.

  They left the outpost through the same charred gates they’d entered the night before, taking a narrow dirt road north and west. In a short time the road met the river and followed it downstream. The deep green water ran slowly and steadily under the cover of the tall, thin pines and leafy oak trees. Birds chirped around them, and the morning air was cool and damp, almost chilly compared to the plains. The dusty road sent up small puffs with each footstep, but not enough to make a person cough. All in all, Gairen was right. He did feel better.

  While they walked, Gairen told Riam about Hath. “The town is primarily a logging community, with several sawmills shipping lumber downriver through Ibbal and on to the capital city of Parthusal. The timber is cut a hundred steads upriver, closer to the mountains where it’s colder and the pines grow larger, before being bundled and guided downstream by rivermen who ride the logs like rafts.”

  He went on to explain that they
would pass through the timber yard where the logs were pulled from the water to cure before being taken to the mills. “Once we make it to the yard, the road will be paved, and we’ll be free of the dust.”

  That made sense to Riam. A loaded wagon or a heavy wain could turn a dirt road into deep ruts that stressed the wheels and axles in a matter of days, especially after a rain.

  Riam looked for the logs in the river while they walked, hoping to see the rivermen. The river twisted and turned lazily, moving away from the road and returning farther on.

  “See how it meanders?” Gairen said. “That means it’s an old river. Rivers are like people. A young river runs straight and fast. An old river takes its time and winds its way along. This one is very old—here long before we landed on the continent. Once it hits Ibbal, it joins the Layren. That’s when it speeds up and makes a line straight to Parthusal.”

  Riam nodded, but he wasn’t really listening. His mind kept returning to Gairen’s words about swords and glyphs and regiments. Who cares how old the river is, anyway?

  Gairen was still talking when they reached the yard. A massive chain, anchored by stone pillars, stretched from shore to shore. It held a bundle of timber with more than ten logs above the waterline fast in the middle of the river. Men in two boats and on top of the logs scurried to tie the bundle off to a thick rope that ran up a smooth dirt ramp and into the yard where it was fastened to a team of bored-looking mastons. Back home, the woolly brown beasts with thick black manes and forelocks were used to pull the large wains that came every summer to carry grain from the plains to the cities. The mastons’ bulky frames were twice as wide as a horse and half again taller. They had horns like a bull, except that they were angled more forward and upward, and ended in dull rounded points instead of sharp tips. Nobody rode them much, or at least not for long. They were simply too big and wide to ride comfortably.

  Some of Riam’s best memories were of him and Lemual playing around the woolly beasts when they were younger. The owners would chase them away over and over again. They’d made it into a game until Grandfather put a stop to it.